Carpe Noctem
by starbursts and kisses
Summary: A story about successful robberies, stolen hearts, and the glorious search for freedom.


**AN:** It's been a while since I last wrote a proper one-shot. Consider this an early Halloween treat (if you end up liking it, that is. Lol).

This was heavily inspired by a Tumblr prompt I reblogged a few weeks ago. As usual, I got carried away, and instead of a drabble, this became a long ass one-shot. Enjoy the craziness.

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><p><em>"<em>_Dress suitably in short skirts and strong boots, leave your jewels in the bank, and buy a revolver."_

— Countess Markievicz, 19th century Irish revolutionary

* * *

><p><strong><em>Prologue<em>**

She stands on the edge of the harbor and waits, a tiny spot of black amidst a sea of moving bodies. Her face is half-obscured by damp locks of hair, her coat thoroughly drenched in rainwater, and her grip on the railing is strong, as though it could prevent her hands from shaking should her nerves choose to betray her at this moment.

But strangely enough, she doesn't feel nervous. Not really. Even though her left palm is burning from the time she nearly got electrocuted breaking into the safe (_Ugh. Braavosi banks, _she inwardly says with equal measures of fondness and exasperation), even though there are a million things – an endless list of unplanned variables – that could go wrong, even though the game is far from over and she won't feel completely safe until she and Aegon are halfway across the Narrow Sea, the isle of Braavos safely behind them… Even with all these things running at the back of her mind, there is not an ounce of fear left in her.

She'd planned this for months, had spent many long nights poring over maps and building layouts and forged papers on her tiny makeshift kitchen table, her eyes ringed in black halos, her nail beds pale from the lack of sleep. She knows every exit point in Braavos, knows a thousand different ways she could kill a man in the time it would take him to raise the alarm, and has plotted the location of half a dozen safe houses where they could seek refuge from, should things turn ugly. So she isn't worried.

A seagull caws overhead. In the distance, she thinks she can make out the familiar form of _The Shy Maid _as it bobbed up and down in the receding tide_, _its freshly painted hull shining like a beacon, slowly beckoning her towards home. Towards freedom.

She longs to run out to the ship and put as much distance as she can between herself and this godforsaken place, but it isn't time yet. She glances at her watch. _7:12. _Three minutes left. There isn't much to do now except wait.

So she hunches her shoulders, shoves her hands in the pockets of her long overcoat, and continues to stare out to sea, ignoring the way the rain fell heavily down and around her. A minute passes. Then five.

"Need an umbrella?"

She looks up. And there is Aegon, looking bright-eyed and gloriously, impossibly _alive_, one elegant arm outstretched as he shields her from the rain with his umbrella.

"Were you followed? What happened? What took you so long?"

Aegon smiles sheepishly at her and lifts a hand in greeting. "I, ah, took a short detour," he explains. "But it's alright. Everything went according to plan. You have the book?"

Arya nods and releases the breath she doesn't realize she has been holding. "You stupid. You almost scared me."

"I'm sorry," Aegon whispers, looking contrite. "Forgive me? Please?"

She doesn't respond. Instead, she launches into his arms, marveling at the solid feel of him, at his sinewy muscles and long limbs and warm skin, at his heartbeat – amazingly steady and calm against hers – and for a moment, the relief of seeing him is so palpable she feels as though her ribcage is about to split open.

"Are you ready to leave?" he finally asks her after some time.

She raises an eyebrow at him, a faint smile on her face. "Are you?"

Aegon laughs and twirls his umbrella with a dramatic flourish. "Yeah. Come on," he says as he tucks her hand in the crook of his elbow and quietly begins to leads her away. "I heard Westeros is nice this time of the year."

They walk like that the rest of the way toward _The Shy Maid – _heads bent together, limbs intertwined – unaware of the beautiful picture they present to anyone who might be watching them. Outwardly, they appear just like any young couple out for a romantic stroll by the bay. Aegon in his dark suit, tiny rivulets of water running down his cheek, Arya looking like some tragic heroine come back to life, the rainy scene in the background – the whole thing looks like something straight out of an old black-and-white romance movie. But this isn't a romance movie. Not by a long shot. (At least, not according to Arya, anyway.)

From the safety of their vessel, they watch the world explode in a sea of oranges and reds.

* * *

><p><strong><em>1 Year Ago<em>**

The opening tune to _The Bear and the Maiden Fair _could be heard drifting down the hallway as a teenager in a ratty navy blue sweatshirt shoulders her way past the early morning crowd, her head bobbing up and down in time with the beat of the music. She stops, mid-whistle, in front of the snack machine, her sneakers making weird, screeching noises on the polished linoleum floor, and withdraws a coin from her pocket.

It shines dully in her palm – an old, iron coin with the outline of a hooded, faceless figure stamped in the middle – and even at this distance, it is impossible to mistake it for a silver stag.

The girl inserts the coin into the slot. A moment later, she fishes a lone candy bar from the chute and proceeds to tear it open using her teeth. Instead of a candy bar though, she finds a key. Engraved in it were the numbers _802. _Silently and with a well-practiced nonchalance that would have looked perfectly ordinary to the untrained eye, she pockets the key and proceeds to walk out the building.

Dodging past busy commuters and a group of teenage girls selling oysters by the newsstand, she doesn't stop until she reaches another building, this one a tall, eastern-style structure that bears the words "House of Seven Lamps" in unassuming bold black letters.

The sharp smell of incense hits her as she enters the lobby, but no one tries to stop her when she rides the elevator all the way up to the 8th floor before finally coming to a complete stop on a door marked 802. She turns the key over in her hands, fingers absentmindedly tracing the numbers engraved in it. Then with a casual shrug, she inserts the key into the lock. It fits perfectly.

Inside, she finds the Waif. She is sitting in the middle of a small, circular table, her back facing the door, the remnants of a cigarette fizzling in one thin, bony hand. She does not turn to look at Arya when she enters; instead, she reaches for the briefcase on the table and carefully, meticulously, opens it.

"We have a new assignment for you," she rasps in perfect Braavosi. "Will you accept?"

Arya stares at the briefcase's contents for a moment. Then she nods. "I accept."

The Waif bows her head in response. "_Valar morghulis," _she whispers.

"_Valar dohaeris." _

Arya stands up, picks up the briefcase, and leaves.

* * *

><p><strong><em>11 Months and 3 Weeks Ago<em>**

It's Friday night and Arya is scaling an 800-feet tall pyramid with no backup partner, no proper disguise (she'd shed the face of a lovely slave girl only minutes ago), and no Plan B. To make matters even more interesting, there is a five-minute time limit, an entire squadron of Unsullied patrolling the city streets and, should anyone catch her in the act of stealing from one of the greatest architectural wonders of modern day Meereen, there is the delightful possibility of her being shot, maimed, or worse, forced into slavery. No big deal, right?

A lesser person would have balked at having such odds stacked against her. But Arya only smiles and welcomes the challenge. She loves these missions away from Braavos– the thrill of picking a new face, the heady rush of adrenaline pounding through her veins as she dodges one obstacle after another, that quiet sense of purpose that fills her as she snags her prize. It all makes her feel so alive.

Out here, with the wind at her back and the pale moon as her guide, she is no longer Arya. She is Cat of the Canals. She is Blind Beth. She is Mercy. She is Nan. She is every face she's ever worn and more. She is No one.

_And No one always gets the job done, _she thinks to herself as she reaches the top of the pyramid and shimmies her way inside through a gap in the windows. As expected, the entire place is as silent as the grave. Normally there are guards stationed at every floor and every entrance, but if there's one thing she's learned from being a Faceless Man, it's this – even the most secure fortresses can be breached. The Great Pyramid of Meereen is no exception.

After five consecutive days of posing as a meek slave who went by the name of Hazzaleah, No one learned one vital thing. At precisely 11:55 in the evening, the dozen or so sentries posted at the apex of the pyramid would go down to the barracks to be relieved by another set of guards, and from there, she had calculated that the time it would take for these replacements to reach their designated location would be exactly five minutes. Unfortunately for the illustrious city watch of Meereen, No one could do a lot of things in just five minutes. Like steal a bronze harpy, for example.

The prized object lies in a glass display case, plain for all the world to see. The glass is bulletproof and the room booby-trapped, but these are obstacles she had already anticipated. It's why she has a bottle filled to the brim with one of the The Waif's deadliest chemicals, designed to burn through anything, even glass, and a beautifully choreographed dance already memorized (they don't call her a water dancer for nothing). With these elements working in her favor, it would have been quite easy for her to walk into the room blindfolded and steal the bronze harpy without anyone being the wiser, but that's assuming everything would go according to plan, of course.

That assumption is her first mistake. Her second mistake is letting her guard down and not paying closer attention to her surroundings. (_Boy, have you learned nothing? The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it. Look with your eyes, _a voice that sounds suspiciously like Syrio Forel whispers in her ear, several seconds too late.)

She moves gracefully in the darkness, flitting from one corner of the room to another like the feline creature that is her namesake, her movements steadily propelling her closer and closer to her goal. But all too soon she realizes that something is wrong.

The glass display case is empty and there is someone else in the room with her. (She really should have made a Plan B.)

In a moment of weakness, she mutters something in Braavosi. Perhaps a curse, perhaps a quick prayer; it doesn't matter. And just like that she is no longer No one, but Arya again. It is an unwelcome change.

The stranger pivots and almost drops the bronze harpy he is holding when he sees her. His eyes widen. Arya is glad she is not the only one caught unawares. "What in the _holy _hell –" he starts to say.

Arya doesn't allow herself to think. She leaps in the air, forcefully snatches the object from the stranger's hands, and _runs._

"Hey, I stole that first! Give it back!" she hears the man exclaim indignantly as he recovers from his initial surprise and chases after her. _He has a nice voice_, a tiny part of Arya that isn't concerned with trivial things like getting killed and getting her ass kicked by mysterious men who steal things that aren't rightfully theirs to steal quickly points out. Arya would have gladly kicked that traitorous part of herself back into submission if only she isn't too busy running for her life.

She can't help it though. She throws a grin over her shoulder and shouts back, "Thanks for holding on to this for me! Don't worry, I'll take good care of it!"

"No, wait –"

With a sudden burst of speed, Arya jumps off the balcony.

_What a shame, _she tells herself as she clicks on her safety harness and glides off into the night, the stranger's enraged yells echoing in her ear like beautiful pieces of symphony orchestra music. _I didn't get a chance to practice my water dance._

* * *

><p><strong><em>10 Months Ago<em>**

They are in a cruise ship, celebrating Euron Greyjoy's wedding and timely return from Asshai, when she sees him again. He's wearing one of those Westerosi fancy suits (an original Renly Baratheon creation, if Arya has to hazard a guess), his long silver hair is tied back in a ponytail, and though he cleans up nicely enough – probably well enough to pass himself off as a distant Greyjoy cousin or an eligible bachelor from King's Landing – Arya isn't so easily fooled. She'd know that voice anywhere.

So she surreptitiously follows him – not a hard thing to do now that she's masquerading as a member of the catering staff – as he politely excuses himself from his conversation with one of the business moguls from Pyke and proceeds to make his way down to Euron Greyjoy's private cabin, all under the pretense of looking for the men's room. He would have probably made it all the way inside without attracting further notice, if only Arya hadn't chosen that moment to intervene.

_Sorry, tough guy. A girl has to earn a living. _She watches him get dragged off by one of Greyjoy's goons and almost regrets giving away his position, if only so she could see the stupefied look on his face when she steals the very item he himself had tried to snatch right under The Croweye's nose just minutes ago.

Later on, she does get her chance. She is walking toward one of the less-crowded parts of the ship, about to make good on her escape plan, when she sees her fellow thief standing near one of the railings, a lovely bruise blooming on his right cheek. He does not look happy to see her.

"What have you done with my horn?" he says by way of greeting. He probably intended to sound tough and threatening, but only succeeded in doing the opposite. _He sounds just like a petulant child_, Arya muses. She stifles a laugh by coughing into her hand and blinks at him, all doe-eyed innocence and sugary smiles.

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir. I'm just a humble waitress."

The stranger glowers at her. "You know, for a thief, you're a surprisingly good liar. But you have poor ethics. Do you know how long my boss railed on me for losing that bronze harpy to you? God, I swear I can still hear the echo of his sermons even now."

Arya drops all pretense of innocence and grins at him. "Trust me, my boss is scarier than yours."

"Oh ho. So you admit it then? You are my mysterious adversary from the other night." His gaze roves over her from head to toe, but thankfully, he is wise enough not to comment on the fact that he's been bested by a girl several years his junior, not just once but twice. It is enough to make even the most well mannered opponents lose their cool, so Arya doesn't hold it against him. "So? Do you have the dragon horn or not?"

She does, in fact, have it. The last remaining dragon horn that exists in this world is safely strapped to her waist, hidden by the thick uniform (thank you, Frey Inc.) she had to put on as part of her disguise. But of course, she has no plans of telling him that. "Are you gonna harass me for the rest of the night if I refuse to give it to you?" she asks him.

He smiles apologetically at her and shrugs. "I'm afraid so."

"You leave me no choice then."

This time it is Arya's turn to look remorseful. She places her hands on his shoulders, all-too aware of his sudden intake of breath, and, taking advantage of his momentary surprise, she pushes him off the railing and watches him plummet into the sea.

That night, she learns three new interesting things.

One: Euron Greyjoy does not take kindly to being robbed on his own ship.

Two: The dragon horn would fetch an astonishingly high price on the black market.

And three: Her rival thief is an excellent swimmer.

* * *

><p><strong><em>9 Months, 2 Weeks, and 6 Days Ago<em>**

"We really need to stop meeting like this."

Arya freezes in the act of snatching the dragon statue off its pedestal. When she ventures a look over her shoulder, she is greeted by the familiar yet peculiar sight of a man in a military uniform, Qartheen copper epaulets shining like spots of sunlight in the otherwise dim chamber. It is her silver-haired nemesis from the other night, looking curiously happy to see her. But perhaps that has more to do with the fact that he has the barrel of a .44 caliber handgun pointed at her chest rather than out of some genuine desire he might have for seeking out her company.

Slowly, she starts to reach for her own weapon, careful to keep the stranger's eyes engaged so he wouldn't notice her covert movements.

"Ah ah," the stranger sings as he follows her movements with his gun. "Don't even think about it."

Arya drops her hand and glares at him.

"Now hand the statue over to me. Slowly."

Arya does as he says, cautiously inching her way forward in a manner similar to that of a newborn colt about to walk on ice for the very first time. When she is close enough to the man – close enough to see how startlingly purple his eyes are – she deposits the stone statue into his waiting hands, trying hard to resist the temptation of punching him in the face for smiling at her like an idiot.

"Yes, that's it. _Thank you." _

The moment his fingers come in contact with the statue, she moves. She kicks the hand holding the gun, sending the weapon skittering to the floor, mercifully out of reach, and in the same space of a second, whirls around and sends another well-aimed strike to his chest. He cries out in surprise, his grip on the statue slackening. Arya takes that as her cue to snatch the treasure from him and, pausing just long enough to smirk at him, she proceeds to do what she does best – she runs.

"Oh god, not again!" the stranger wails. Behind her, she could hear him picking up his gun and sprinting after her.

He's fast, Arya has to give him that. But she is faster.

"Point a gun at me again and next time I promise I won't go easy on you," she cheerfully yells at him as she makes her grand exit.

The sound of her laughter taunts him all the way back to the entrance of the Palace of Dust.

* * *

><p><strong><em>9 Months and 1 Week Ago<em>**

It feels weird being in a room full of dazzling artifacts and not being permitted to steal anything. Or perhaps it's the fancy dress she's been forced to wear and the matching jewels on her neck that is the true source of her discomfort. Despite her training and all the years she spent tireless chipping away the parts of herself she's convinced herself she didn't need – all those tiny, forgotten parts of her that made her weak, made her human, made her _Arya Stark _– sometimes all it would take is a scene like this one – a grand ball, the upper echelons of Braavosi society all dressed up for one night, the sweet smell of wine and the sound of violin music in the background – and fragments of her past would come crashing back to her.

The lady in white, for instance, would remind her of a girl she once knew, a girl who used to loved lemon cakes and sad songs. It's the same thing with the gentleman to her right, the one with the kind smile and the shy eyes. And when she stares at herself in the mirror, for an instant, what she sees is the reflection of an awkward little girl carelessly running around in the snow, crying because she can't perfect her piano and her ballet. _Arya Horseface, _Jeyne Poole's voice echoes inside her head.

Arya blinks, and as suddenly as it appears, the moment is gone. She is back to her old self again, her Faceless self. _Good. _She straightens her back and forces herself to smile. She has a job to do.

She weaves through the crowd, pausing every now and then to take a glass of champagne or pop a cherry tart into her mouth, all without keeping her eyes off the Sealord. He is amiably conversing with the ambassador from Westeros (a Southerner, by the looks of him), and from Arya's vantage point near the balustrade, in a tight little spot concealed between two potted plants and a bust of the former Sealord of Braavos, she is free to observe her target.

She has no plans to assassinate the present Sealord. Instead, what she seeks is a cipher. A cipher that Ferrego Antaryon might or might not have. What the code could unlock or where it might lead her, the Waif did not say. But Arya isn't particularly bothered by the lack of information. She suspects the Kindly Man will tell her anyway, in his own time.

She is thinking about the proper way she might introduce herself to the Sealord without arising suspicion when someone suddenly coughs behind her. She feels a gentle hand on her elbow, and when she turns around, she comes face to face with none other than her shadow thief.

"Hello," he greets her, his handsome face arranged into a perfect mask of civility. He looks rather pleased to see her, given the circumstances, but at least, Arya is quick to notice, this time he no longer has a gun pointed at her.

"Are you here to steal something?" he asks her, ever the polite thief.

"No. Are you?"

"No," he denies with a smile. He tilts his head to look at her, as though he is studying a complex piece of artwork or an intriguing centerpiece that has captured his attention, and says, "You're very good, you know. Thievery-wise."

Arya accepts the compliment with a smile of her own. "I see you've had enough time to nurse your bruised ego. No longer afraid that I'll beat you?"

"Yeah, yeah. Rub it in, why don't you?" the man says sulkily, crossing his arms in front of his chest and pursing his lips in a manner highly reminiscent to that of a three-year-old. "One day I'll get you back for that, you'll see."

"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night."

"I'm Griff, by the way," the stranger suddenly says, offering her his hand.

"Why bother telling me? I'm sure that's not your real name." Against her better judgment, she takes the proffered gesture, his thumb brushing against her palm for one infinitesimal second before she lets go.

The guy who calls himself Griff smirks at her. "You're a smart girl. I'm sure you'll figure out my real name soon enough."

"Hmm. Maybe. If I bother searching for it," Arya says with a noncommittal shrug.

"Yes, if you bother searching for it," Griff agrees in a tone that suggests just how confident he is that Arya would be curious enough to search for his true identity. He raises his eyebrow at her. "So? Does the lovely lady have a name? It's only polite that you introduce yourself."

"Cat," she grudgingly gives up after a long pause.

"Pleasure to meet you, Cat. Sorry I threatened to shoot you on the chest the other night. Please don't take it personally." Griff leans closer to her and shoots her a smile laced with self-confidence. Or is it breeziness? It's hard to tell, not with his face just inches away from hers. "Hey, do you want to know a secret?"

He doesn't wait for Arya to respond. "The Sealord of Braavos doesn't have the cipher. His courtesan does," he whispers conspiratorially in her ear.

Arya frowns. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Because," he informs her, "My target tonight is not the Sealord and his courtesan. So I'm in a position to help you out a little. I don't know. I think… I think I kind of like you."

She laughs upon hearing this. "You're a strange man."

"I am," he concurs. He brushes a stray curl from her face and tucks it behind her ear, the rough pads of his fingers lingering on her cheekbones in a way guaranteed to make any woman swoon. He probably expects her to pull away – no sane person in her situation would ever willingly allow things to go this far – but Arya is nothing if not unpredictable. She leans into his touch, smiles coyly at him (a signature Happy Port move that has served her well in past situations), and kisses him fully on the mouth.

He responds eagerly, his lips brushing against hers with uncharacteristic gentleness, his hands ghosting over her jaw and the ridge of her collarbone. Arya, for her part, pulls him closer to her with one expert tug of his collar, alternating between leaving crescent-shaped marks on his neck and running a hand through his hair. When they finally pull off for air, Griff is breathing heavily, and there is a thick smear of red lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Later on, it's the only thing that would serve to remind him that the entire thing hadn't been just a dream.

He stares dazedly at her as she straightens his bowtie, winks at him, and leaves him standing there in the middle of their secluded spot like a complete idiot.

Fifteen minutes later, he discovers the tiny tracking device he tried to plant on her earring cleverly hidden on the back of his collar. Damn, she's _good._

* * *

><p><strong><em>9 Months Ago<em>**

Aegon is aware that he has better things to do with his time than stand in the middle of the crowded plaza and watch a teenage thief play the role of an Astapori heiress to perfection. Watching her as she parades around the square in her thigh-high boots and short dress (Aegon would bet his entire gun collection that she has her own plethora of weapons hidden beneath all those layers of leather and silk), her gigantic pet wolf by her side (this is Slaver's Bay; stranger things have happened), he is struck by an odd sense of wonder that out of the hundreds of thieves scattered across the Free Cities like pollen in a strong breeze, it is this particular girl who had managed to cross paths with him. The universe certainly has an odd way of messing with his life.

He can't help it though, this sheer fascination he's suddenly developed for her. Aegon had always been a curious fellow, even as a child, but even he is surprised by how fast his emotions have changed - from severe annoyance to mild attraction - in just a span of a few weeks. He blames it on the grey-eyed thief.

_I mean, god… just look at her, _Aegon mentally rages, taking a peek at the lady in question over the newspaper he's been pretending to read for the last few minutes. She has just exited the bank, the people around her remaining blissfully unaware that her pet wolf has recently acquired a new collar (black leather studded with long lost Targaryen rubies, to be exact). God, her methods are perfect. Her Valyrian is perfect. _She _is perfect.

If Illyrio or Varys hears him talking like this, they would fucking murder him, Aegon is sure of it. And if they ever find out that he abandoned his post (he's supposed to be spying on a Yunkaii trader and his associates) so he could go on a little side trip to fucking Astapor of all places, well, they'd probably do something worse than murder him. Images of Varys strangling him by the neck with his fake Tyroshi beard and tossing his lifeless body in the remains of what was once Astapor's glorious fighting pit fill his head and Aegon forces himself to shake off the horrible visions, all while mentally berating himself for having such a hyperactive imagination.

He doesn't consider his actions as a form of rebellion. On the contrary, he thinks they're completely justified. He calls it _knowing thy enemy. _Other men though, those less obtuse than he is, would recognize it for what it truly is: the telltale signs of a new crush.

* * *

><p><strong><em>8 Months and 2 Weeks Ago<em>**

Arya half-expects Griff the thief to materialize out of thin air the minute she manages to infiltrate the Black Pearl's private chambers, but to her disappointment, he doesn't come. Not that she could blame him. Tonight's mission, as Arya so eloquently puts it, is the shittiest thing she's had to endure in months. She can't wait to be back in her cramped apartment at Ragman's Harbor so she can sleep the night away and forget this nightmare had ever happened.

She doesn't mind rising through the ranks and posing as the Black Pearl's apprentice. Bellegere is a fascinating person, and Arya would often spend many hours staring at her as the older woman worked her magic – one calculated brush against her patron, one well placed smile, and she would soon have the man eating at the palm of her hand – but not even those alluring displays of power would be enough to make Arya forget the indignities she had to suffer as part of being an apprentice courtesan.

There were the usual methods of torture – painting her face everyday, learning how to pour tea, feigning at delight whenever she gets picked to ride the barge with all the other girls – but the worst of them, the absolute worst, were the men. Arya hadn't known that such a large congregation of troglodytes, drawn to the scent of carefully cultivated glamour and fake innocence, existed in this part of the world. It was appalling. They'd tried everything, from seducing her with their gold to casually trying to peer down her shirt, and Arya had never been more relieved when Bellegere announced that Arya's virtue would remain intact until the day she sees fit to divest her of it.

Thankfully, the Black Pearl would never get that chance.

Arya deftly picks up the jewelry box from its hiding place and examines it. Such a small thing yet so priceless. She gets the lock open in one try and, as she pries the lid off and peers at its contents, she can't help but think, _This is way too easy. _

She's right. Instead of Bellegere Otherys' prized pearls, what she finds at the bottom of the box is a tastefully handwritten note that says:

_Sorry C. Looks like I win this time. Good luck nursing your bruised ego._

_Yours truly,_

_G_

Arya's mouth drops open. Well, she'll be damned.

* * *

><p><strong><em>8 Months, 1 Week, and 5 Days Ago<em>**

When she gets back from her appointed meeting with the Waif, there is an open box waiting for her on her front door. Inside it is a fishbowl with a single goldfish in it, its tiny glassy eyes fixed on her with something akin to boredom, but what truly stops Arya in her tracks is the small pile of pearls she sees at the bottom of the tank. Pearls exactly like the ones she had seen in the Black Pearl's jewelry box days ago. And then there's the note.

_Upon further reflection, I have decided to extend the spoils of my victory to you (I never could resist a pretty lady). Consider this a token of our newfound friendship._

_The fish is named Bellegere, by the way._

_Best wishes,_

_G_

Arya stands perfectly still in her living room, eyes wide with shock and heart fluttering in her chest like some trapped bird struggling to get out of its cage, and she would have probably stood there for quite some time had Nymeria not nosed her hand and brought her back to the present.

She couldn't believe it. How had he found her apartment? And better yet… just who the hell is this guy? What kind of thief would be considerate enough to send his plundered goods back to his opponent?

But deep down she knows the answer.

_The kind who likes being kissed by grey-eyed girls in fancy dresses, _her subconscious quietly tells her.

* * *

><p><strong><em>7 Months and 3 Weeks Ago<em>**

By the time the first snow falls, she has learned much about the mysterious man who calls himself Griff. His real name is Aegon, he grew up in a manse in Pentos, his favorite disguise is that of a blue-haired Lyseni, and he is, indeed, a very good thief (not as good as Arya though).

Arya has half a mind to stalk him on his next mission and rob him of his prize, but since he had been gracious enough to send her Bellegere's pearls, she decided that she might as well try being charitable for once. So instead, she sends him a golden dragon egg (a clear jibe at his real name) she had pilfered from her brief stint across the Dothraki Sea, along with a message that says: _You have a weird name. Bellegere says hello._

* * *

><p><strong><em>7 Months, 2 Weeks, and 4 Days Ago<em>**

_Dear (__Cat) __Arya,_

_I expect Bellegere to be spoiled rotten, just like that beastly wolf of yours (she tried to bite me the first time I tried to sneak into your apartment. Lovely place, by the way. Very cozy.)_

_Your friendly thief,_

_A_

_P.S. What is your opinion on revolvers?_

* * *

><p><strong><em>7 Months, 2 Weeks, and 2 Days Ago<em>**

_I love revolvers._

_P.S. Congratulations, you just offended Nymeria. Better wear protective gear next time you drop something off at my place._

* * *

><p><strong><em>7 Months and 1 Week Ago<em>**

_My apologies. I guess you weren't kidding about the protective gear. (I had to get stitches on my right leg and thus lost the chance to rob Qarro Volentin's home last night. Boo.)_

_Hope you like the surprise I left you!_

_-A_

* * *

><p><strong><em>7 Months and 6 Days Ago<em>**

_Did you just leave Dark Sister on my bedside table? DARK SISTER, as in the long lost Valyrian gun last wielded by Brynden Rivers in the early years following Aegon's Conquest?!_

_OMG. WHAT ARE YOU?_

* * *

><p><strong><em>7 Months and 5 Days Ago<em>**

_You're welcome._

_-A_

* * *

><p><strong><em>6 Months Ago<em>**

And so it went.

Before Arya knows it, she has accumulated such a vast pile of stolen wealth courtesy of her new friend – beautiful tapestries from the time of the Mad King, snarling wolf masks from Tyrosh, limited edition guns from Asshai – that she has to push her modest-sized bed to the side of the room because if she doesn't, there simply wouldn't be enough space for everything. She imagines this is what a dragon's den must've looked like back in the good old days.

Arya isn't sure what the hell is happening, but something tells her that if the Kindly Man ever finds out about this, he would not approve. Somehow though, the thought of earning the Kindly Man's disapproval only makes her want to defy him more.

Suddenly, a thought occurs to her. Good god, is this… is this what flirting is supposed to be like? Who the fuck flirts with someone via mail and stolen goods anyway? She wishes she could ask Merry at the Happy Port about this. Hell, she wishes she could ask _Aegon _about this.

For some reason though, she likes it. This… being friends or thief pen pals or whatever the fuck she is with Aegon. It makes her feel less like a Faceless Man and more like a normal human being. And for the first time in her life, she doesn't think of it as a bad thing.

What she feels for Aegon isn't love. Not yet. But it _could _be.

* * *

><p><strong><em>5 Months Ago<em>**

_Darling Arya,_

_A little bird told me that today's your birthday. So? Got any plans for world domination? If you ever decide that you're not too busy to hang out with us little people, come meet me by the Moon Pool at 7 tonight. I'll bring the wine._

_Yours faithfully,_

_A_

She does end up meeting him later that night, where they toast to her birth, steal a few baubles from passing tourists, and drunkenly declare to climb the Titan of Braavos (Aegon makes it all the way to the Titan's legs before he pukes and slides off the statue, much to Arya's amusement).

It's the most fun she's had in months.

* * *

><p><strong><em>2 Months Ago<em>**

Everything changes the day he shows up at her apartment looking ashen-faced and worried.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Arya watches him as he double-checks the lock on her door and peeks outside her window. "I don't know. I think…" He swallows and runs an agitated hand through his hair. "I think I was being followed."

Arya blinks. "What? Like, _here?" _

Aegon nods. "I wish I could be wrong about this. But you know I rarely am," he says. A thought suddenly strikes him. "Arya… do they know where you live?"

By _they, _Arya assumes he means the Faceless Men. "Of course they do," she replies. "This is their city. They control it. Not even the Sealord is as powerful as those who serve the Many-Faced God."

"And do you think they care? That I know where you live? That I visit you in-between missions? That I…?"

"That you fuck me in the Sept-Beyond-the-Sea and steal me trinkets and watch my back on dangerous missions?" she adds, knowing Aegon is too much of a gentleman to phrase things that way. "No, I don't think they'd care at all. Not unless…" She pauses.

"Not unless what?"

"Not unless they think our relationship is affecting my performance."

His eyes widen in understanding. "And is it?" he asks even though he thinks he already knows the answer. "Is it affecting your performance?"

Arya shrugs, trying hard to infect Aegon with her false nonchalance. "I may have refused a few missions or so. But only the ones where I know you'd be involved," she admits, then raises an eyebrow at the admonishing look Aegon gives her. "_What?_ Competing with you got boring after a while."

Aegon sighs. He does not look the slightest bit convinced. "You shouldn't have, Arya," he says softly.

"How could I not? You think I'm not aware that Varys and Illyrio Mopatis are far from the perfect benefactors? Illyrio may be fond of you to some degree, but if you keep allowing me to steal stuff just so I won't get in trouble with the Order, if he finds out about that, do you think he'd go to such terrible lengths to protect you? I've been in this business long enough to know how things work, Aegon. The moment we outlive our usefulness, we're dead meat to them."

"What do you propose we do then?"

Arya opens her mouth to say something, but Aegon levels her with a look. "If you're about to suggest that we stop seeing each other and go back our separate merry ways, then you can forget about it," he snaps at her, jaw clenched stubbornly and arms crossed over his chest. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? So you best get used to the idea."

Arya stays silent.

No doubt she is trying to think of something – something brutal or hurtful enough to make him leave – but Aegon would have none of it. He didn't sign up to be thief buddies with her only to have their blossoming relationship go to ruins just because some old dickhead organization with an obsession with death deems it inconvenient. Moreover, he may be a generous fellow, but he doesn't send priceless treasures to just anyone. Even Jon Connington, bless his dearly departed soul, didn't get more than the occasional postcard and 24-karat gold pistol. Arya, though… Arya is different. For her, he would steal an entire _world._

He turns to look at the thief he has come to know so well over the past few months – at the lean angles of her profile against the window glass, at the sunlight casting eerie shadows on her skin, at the endearingly obstinate look on her face as she meets his gaze – and finds the courage to ask, "If I ask you to run away with me, to leave Braavos and never come back… what would you say?"

Arya's reply is simple. "When do we leave?"

* * *

><p><strong><em>1 Month Ago<em>**

"I know a guy."

"Uh-oh. Are you trying to break up with me?"

Despite the direness of their situation, Arya can't help but laugh. "Stop being such a pest, Aegon, and listen to me for a minute," she chides him.

"Okay fine," he replies, shooting her a teasing smile and raising his arms in mock surrender. "Go on. I'm listening."

They're in a Ferris wheel off Purple Harbor, just a few hours shy of midnight, and though Arya isn't overly fond of locations like this (she thinks the whole thing is sort of cheesy, and besides, she and Aegon aren't on a date anyway) she agrees to meet him here.

From a professional criminal's standpoint, the Ferris wheel is the perfect place for forbidden lovers, or in Arya and Aegon's case, thieves-about-to-go-rogue, to conduct their clandestine meetings. It's public enough to avoid arousing suspicion yet private enough that they could speak freely to each other without fear of being overheard by selected members of the Braavosi underworld.

She misses the days when Aegon could barge into her apartment at odd hours of the night (being a top-notch burglar has a way of messing with one's sleep cycle), brimming with tales of his latest adventure. He would feed Bellegere the goldfish and snuggle next to Arya on her ugly little couch, where they'd watch old action movies and laugh at all the bad actors (_"Pah! That's not how you rob a museum!") _and fall asleep before they get to all the good parts, Arya's head pillowed on his chest. But now that they've found themselves at the top of the Faceless Men's watch list, such nightly visits have ceased to exist.

Arya plans to change that though.

She clears her throat and turns her attention back to him. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…" she says. "I have a friend. Someone who would be willing to fight the Faceless Men and the Spider for us and help us disappear."

Aegon frowns. "You must trust this friend of yours a lot, if you think he can go against the Faceless Men and emerge victorious."

"I do. He went rogue many years ago, and I haven't since him since, but I know he'll help us," Arya says with conviction. "However, there is…" She pauses for a while "…a price."

"I thought he was your friend?"

"He is. But he'll need all the help that he can get if he plans to defeat both the Faceless Men _and _the combined forces of Varys and Illyrio Mopatis."

"Hmm. Must be some kind of weapon."

Arya bites back a smile. "It's a book, actually," she tells him. "An ancient book he stole for the Faceless Men years ago, way before I joined the Order. To quote Jaqen, it's an instruction manual for how to build a Targaryen nuclear bomb."

She watches Aegon's eyebrows rise to the top of his hairline. "Well, _fuck _me."

"All we have to do is get our hands on that book, give it to Jaqen, and we'd be free. One final heist, Aegon."

"One final heist," he echoes.

He looks out the window, where the entire world is bathed in the warm glow of a thousand city lights. Braavos has never looked so beautiful, so inviting, as in that moment. From up here – where people and buildings are reduced to microscopic proportions – anything seems possible. Freedom, love, salvation. Aegon feels like he can conquer them all. He smiles at Arya and says, "Okay. Where's the book?"

"Where do you think all valuable items are located?"

He doesn't need to be a genius to figure out the answer. "In a Braavosi bank?"

"Yup. In a Braavosi bank."

Aegon swallows back a groan. Fucking hell. He hates Braavosi banks.

* * *

><p><strong><em>1 Hour Ago<em>**

"You ready?"

"Yeah."

"You remember what I told you?"

Arya rolls her eyes at him, fully prepared to launch into an age-old argument with him, but Aegon doesn't let her. He bends down, cups her face with both hands as though he means to kiss her, and stares into her eyes. They're the wrong shade of color (pale green instead of clear grey), but he doesn't mind. He knows that underneath all the layers of false skin, the person staring back at him is still Arya.

"If anything happens to me," Aegon starts to say, "If I get caught or shot or taken away, I need you to promise me that you'll go with the plan. Run, Arya. Get as far away from here as you can. Do whatever you have to. Just promise me…"

"You know I can't do that. I'll run away, Aegon, but only if you're with me."

Aegon makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. "God, why do you have to be so stubborn?"

"Why do _you _have to be so stubborn?"

Their intense staring contest is broken by the sudden beep of Arya's watch. She blinks and immediately relaxes. "Right. It's time."

She squeezes Aegon's shoulder and smiles reassuringly at him, their argument completely forgotten in lieu of other matters. Like, _oh, _robbing one of the most secure fortresses in the entire city in the ultimate "Fuck you" gesture to her former employers. This isn't exactly what Arya had envisioned when she first came to Braavos as an orphan and begged the House of Black and White to take her in, but she's willing to stray away from the script of her life if it means embarking on a new adventure with Aegon. Besides, rebelling against figures of authority is kind of her specialty.

She knows what's coming next, of course. She's watched enough movies to know how this scene is supposed to end. They're supposed to say their goodbyes and wish each other good luck, but Arya's never been good with farewell scenes. Neither is Aegon.

So instead, she mutters a quick "See you later", hugs him once for good measure (she's not _that _heartless), and runs off to play her new role.

* * *

><p><strong><em>30 Minutes Ago<em>**

"Hi, Lyanna!"

"Oh, hey, Denyo. Awful weather, isn't it? I think it's gonna rain," Arya remarks in her best "Lyanna the florist" voice. She smiles gratefully at him as he opens the door for her and helps her with her deliveries, unaware that today will be the last time he'll ever see her again. She likes Denyo. He's one of the youngest guards in the bank – probably just a year or so older than her – always smiling, always cracking jokes, and in another life, Arya is sure that they could've been good friends. Too bad keeping away intruders like Arya is part of his job description.

"We could use a little rain every now and then, if you ask me. I like rain," Denyo tells her cheerfully as he stops just past the spacious lobby and deposits her deliveries right outside Tycho Nestoris' office.

"Me too," Arya confesses. She plucks a stem of blue rose from one of the boxes and slips it into Denyo's left breast pocket, just like she did to all the other guards she'd seen on her way to the lobby. Several weeks ago, such gestures of affection would've been off-limits, but by now, she's become such a familiar fixture at the bank that she practically earned the right to be friendly to them. Some of the guards are grumpy old bastards, but Arya's always been good at charming people, and by the end of the month, they're smiling at her and waving her inside the bank like she's always been part of the workforce. Even Aegon is impressed.

"There you go," she says as she pats his uniform and makes sure the flower stays in place. "Consider it thanks for helping me with these."

"Anytime, Lyanna." Denyo lifts his cap at her in thanks. "Have a good day."

"You too." She pauses for a while, but in the end, she couldn't resist. "Hey, Denyo?"

"Hm?"

"Just… be careful today, yeah? I think a storm's coming."

"You think? Don't worry. I'll try not to get your flower wet. See ya later." He winks at her and takes his leave.

She should probably tell him that the rose she gave him is laced with a chemical triggered to make him (and all the other guards patrolling the perimeter of the safe) sleep for a few minutes, just enough time for Arya to do her job, but she suspects Denyo won't be too happy when he hears about that.

And then there's the fact that she planted bombs on each flowerpot strategically placed on various areas of the bank. They aren't as destructive as authentic wildfire bombs, and really, she has no intentions whatsoever of killing people with it (it's Aegon's job to make sure everyone evacuates the building before they go off, using any means necessary), but if everything goes according to plan, the bombs will serve as a means of erasing any evidence that could be traced back to them. Besides, Aegon really, really hates Braavosi banks, and making one explode has always been part of his bucket list.

Their plan is simple enough. Arya would do the stealing while Aegon provides the distraction. He would disguise himself as a disgruntled customer and keep all the employees occupied while Arya sneaks into Tycho Nestoris' office, steals the key that would unlock any room in the bank, and cracks open the hidden safe. From there, she would then get the book and make her exit. The rest is up to Aegon.

She's never done a mission like this with anyone else before. But she trusts Aegon enough to know that he won't botch things up for them. She trusts him enough to know that he'll be at the harbor at the appointed time, that he won't end up doing something stupid, like get himself arrested or worse, killed. She trusts him enough to know that he'll come back to her.

In the end, he doesn't make it to the harbor on time and he _does _end up doing something stupid. But later, when all is said and done, Arya will thank him for it.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Epilogue<em>**

"Will you miss Braavos?"

Arya shrugs and watches the Titan of Braavos get smaller from a distance until it eventually recedes from view, covered by a thick layer of fog and sea mist. "I don't know," she tells him honestly. "If the Faceless Men didn't control the city so much, I think I might."

"Now that we've got the book, do you think your friend Jaqen will use it to wipe Braavos off the map?"

"He won't need to. I know you like to think of the House of Black and White as something invincible, but they're not. They're scared of one thing and one thing only – the threat of nuclear warfare. If Jaqen has the book, he could control the entire Order. He could change everything. And I'm not entirely sure that that's a bad thing."

"Well, that's reassuring," Aegon says. "I, for one, would like to visit Braavos again someday."

"Still planning to climb your way up to the top of the Titan's statue?"

Aegon lets out a short bark of laughter. "You bet." His teasing smile soon gives way to something serious, and he slowly beckons Arya over to him. "C'mere. I want to show you something."

With a questioning look on her face, Arya approaches him, Nymeria following closely behind. "What is it?" she asks him. The moment she sees the object in his hand, her frown deepens. "Hey, isn't that your…?"

Aegon twists off the tip of his umbrella and gives it a pull. And then it's no longer an umbrella, but something else. Something familiar, something she didn't think she'd ever see again.

"Aegon, _you didn't." _

"Oh, but I did." Aegon smiles beatifically at her and hands her Needle.

Arya could barely look at it through the blur of her tears. "But how…?"

"I knew that old fencing sword was important to you. You told me once about it, that night when we both got drunk on New Year's Eve. Do you remember? You told me it was the only thing you had that reminded you of your brother and that you were forced to give it up when you joined the Order. But I got lucky, I guess. Two weeks ago when I was doing surveillance at the bank, I discovered that the sword was being kept there, along with all sorts of forgotten items. Who would've thought it? The House of Black and White is _such _a weird organization. Like, did you know that there's this creepy thing that –"

Aegon doesn't get a chance to ramble further. Arya throws her arms around him and pulls him in for a kiss, her smile as bright as the explosion that rocked Braavos that morning. "Thank you," she says.

"Told you I was the best thief in the world."

"For once, I'm not going to argue with you."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>You know what, it's funny. I started this story saying, "I'll write something serious. No crack, just pure drama." (Look at the prologue. You can't say I didn't try.) But somewhere along the way, my brain made me write weird things again. And ugh, the sappiness. What is up with the sappiness.

P.S. Don't ask me why I made Denyo a guard. Lol. I guess I just wanted someone familiar and was too lazy to think of other minor characters who were in Arya's Braavos arc. Sorry Denyo!


End file.
